


after you (hell should be easy)

by iamyouropus (adieu_sweetamaryllis)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Clarke-centric, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-18 13:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3571880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adieu_sweetamaryllis/pseuds/iamyouropus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Three-hundred-and-eighty lives, you think, and try to visualize the number of graves they will fill. You pick up the shovel and begin digging."</p><p>Clarke returns to Mount Weather after leaving Camp Jaha. Meanwhile, Lexa deals with a new political threat. Slow-burn Polis fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on [ Tumblr,](http://ai-ge-smak-daun.tumblr.com) I will most likely follow you back because I am looking for more Clexa or just The 100 blogs to follow. :)

//

Chapter One - Clarke 

//

You don’t make it all the way into camp. You thought you might be able to go inside, gather some things before leaving, but you know you have everything you need with you. 

You can’t make yourself say goodbye to everyone. Leaving is painful enough on its own, and you know going inside would only make it worse.

“Take care of them for me,” you say, eying your friends as they hug each other. 

You know there will be a celebration later — _reunited, and it feels so good_ — but you remember of the look on Jasper’s face as he cried over Maya’s body and you want to throw up. You know he will not be celebrating tonight.

Neither will you.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Bellamy argues, but he knows it's no use. He can’t ask you to stay after what you’ve done. 

“May we meet again,” you say as you leave. You don’t look back. 

//

You arrive at the drop ship two days later. You could have made it there faster, but you allowed yourself time to wander for a while. 

You’re not entirely surprised to find a pack of supplies there. You’re not sure who left it for you, but you have a few guesses. There are a lot of people who care about you that you left behind at Camp Jaha. 

You look inside, and find several bottles of clean water, some first aide supplies, and a few days worth of food. 

There’s a shovel next to the backpack and it gives you pause, but you realize after a moment what it’s there for. 

“Thank you,” you say to no one, and leave. 

//

It’s a long walk to Mount Weather, and it feels even longer alone. You brought your gun for protection, of course, though you don't think you'll need it. The Mountain Men are all gone, and even though your alliance is no longer in tact, you doubt that Lexa would have her men attack you. 

Still, you’re on edge; you realize it after the third time you’ve spun at the noise of a snapping branch only to find an animal (or nothing at all) in your wake. 

You convince yourself you're hearing things. It wouldn't be a stretch, after all -- just days ago you were haunted by Finn, seeing him everywhere you went. 

Finn. Your chest tightens, but his name does not feel as suffocating as it used to. 

_"Love is weakness,"_ you said, and you left him behind. 

You wonder if he felt the weight of the lives he took the same way you feel them now. You already know the answer: he didn't. 

You sigh. Dark is falling, and you are exhausted.

You take a night’s rest in a tree, but find yourself just as tired the next morning. 

//

You reach Mount Weather that evening, just before dusk. 

As you got closer, you noticed the way the ground was trampled, the tracks of the Lexa's one-thousand-man army. You follow their trail to the entrance to the base, where it stops just before the doors. 

You find yourself unable to move forward. 

_"I'm sorry, Clarke,"_ you remember Lexa saying, probably not far from where you stand now. You wonder if she'd meant it. In her own way, you suppose she had, but you're sure if she had to do it again, she'd choose her people's lives once more. 

_"I made this choice with my head and not my heart."_ Her eyes were hardened then, but you could see the hints of sadness you'd learned over the past week and a half. 

You could say you didn’t expect it, but you’d be lying. She did what she had to do, and you know that. 

_"The duty to protect my people comes first,"_ she said. You understand it, now. 

You wish you didn't. 

//

You're grateful to find that there's still electricity inside the mountain base. Raven and Wick didn't destroy the turbines, after all. You wanted to save as many lives as possible. How noble. 

You make your way to the control room. 

There's a body crumpled on the floor, and you know whose it is without looking. He's not the first man you'd killed, but you still remember the president's labored breathing as he struggled through his last few seconds of life.

 _"We're the good guys here, not you,"_ you told him, just an hour before you shot him to death, his son listening over the radio.

You step over him. 

You almost wish you'd brought Monty with you as you search the screen for something that can help. After several minutes, you find something labeled "climate," and turn turn the temperature in the military base as low as it will go. 

You'll preserve whatever you can of the people of Mount Weather. It will not be easy to move their bodies if they've decomposed. 

You feel Dante Wallace’s dead eyes watching you as you leave.

//

You don't go to the fifth floor yet. You know what you will find there. Instead, you make your way back up to the surface, hoping you've bought yourself enough time to do what you must.

Three-hundred-and-eighty lives, you think, and try to visualize the number of graves they will fill. 

You pick up the shovel and begin digging.

//

It’s slower work than you were expecting, but you can’t say that you had much to go off of. You watched as they dug Well’s grave, but never physically dug one out yourself. All in all, it takes you about five hours to dig deep enough, and even then you know it isn’t the right depth because you can still get out of it easily (you’ve never been short, but you’re certainly not anywhere near six feet). Still, you know if you do not hurry, winter will be upon you, and the ground will be too frozen to disturb. 

You become set in a schedule. You rise with the sun, your back sore against the ground. There is a small spring not far from Mount Weather, and you content yourself with filling your canteen from there. Unclean water is still water, after all, and you’re not too concerned with your own health. 

Most days you try to dig three graves, but some you only make it through two. You know at this speed it will take you months to finish. You picture the children and their parents laying in their dishes in the dining hall, and decide you’ll bury families together, when you can. 

//

You won’t go inside Mount Weather, so instead you sleep under a small cliffside overhang nearby. You light a fire big enough to warm yourself. You’re not worried about anyone finding you here. 

At night, you think of Lexa.

You try to picture her as you last saw her, drenched in blood and betrayal at the foot of Mount Weather, but instead you see her soft under the muted light in her tent. You see her smiling, even though you had only experienced that particular phenomenon a few times yourself. You remember the way her lips felt against yours, and sigh.

She doesn’t deserve to be remembered this way, you think. 

You close your eyes, forcing yourself to see her for what she is: a traitor. 

_“I made this choice with my head and not my heart,”_ you hear. You wish the words would make you angry, but instead you feel the familiar sting of tears at your eyes.

You find yourself unable to hate her, and you start to hate yourself for it. 

_She left you to die,_ you think, and the burn of the truth in it scorches against your heart. 

You could say you would never have done the same thing in her shoes, but you’d be lying. You know now that you’d make any choice if it meant saving your people. She taught you that. 

Your heart aches for reasons you don’t understand. 

//

It rains on the sixth day. You’re cold and wet, the small cliffside you’ve been sleeping under not large enough to keep you safe from the rain. The fire goes out in the night. You wake up shivering, and your work is slower that day despite the softened earth.

The next morning, there is a bag waiting for you at the entrance to Mount Weather. 

You don’t open it for a few hours, because you know who it must have come from. No one from Camp Jaha would be able to sneak by you in the night without waking you. And even if they did, your friends would not leave you shuddering in the cold, alone. 

They’d at least visit, you tell yourself. It’s only been a week, but you’re aware of every moment that passes without human interaction. You haven’t been this alone since you were a prisoner on the Ark. 

Your suspicions are confirmed when you open the sack. Inside you find thick furs, and you hug them against you for a moment, breathing deeply. You slept under furs like these after your alliance began with the Grounders. They smell of campfire and dirt and something else a little too familiar. You drop them to the ground. 

You pull out dried meat and crudely formed bread from a smaller pouch inside. Several canisters of water lie at the bottom. You reach in and grab one, raising it to your mouth greedily. It’s the only thing you take before shoving the furs back inside and leaving the bag where you found it.

//

You think you see a Grounder in the trees the next day. It’s just for a moment, a passing glance, but you catch sight of something glimmering in the trees that makes you look twice. There’s nothing there when you look back, but you can sense you’re being watched, and its not the first time. 

You find it somewhat uncomfortable, knowing someone is watching you. You don’t touch the supplies they’ve left, aware that Lexa’s men will report back to her. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’re letting her supplies go unused. It’s not as if you don’t need help — the night in the rain had left you with a cough so bad you needed to stop digging early that day. 

You want to make her mad, you think. 

You’re surprised to find yourself filled with an anger you couldn’t conjure just days before. You don’t want her care or support, not anymore. She lost the right to be that person to you when she left you at the mountain. 

_She’s just trying to absolve herself,_ you think. 

It’s hours later, knee-deep in a grave that you realize you’re doing the same thing. 

//

It takes two more days for your resolve to break. It doesn’t help that it’s been raining the whole time, and without the warmth of the fire, November nights are too cold for you to survive.

 _You’re not here to kill yourself,_ you decide. 

You go for the food first, taking stock of what she gave you. There's enough there to last you several days, you realize, and pick up a piece of the jerky. You've been eating, but not well, and you realize that when you're filled with a nearly insatiable hunger the second you bite into it. 

You haven't been caring for yourself, you realize once your stomach is full. You spend an hour or two building up a small campsite, doing your best to put some sort of roof over your head, even if it is made of twigs and leaves.

That night you sleep under the thick comfort of the furs. It's the first time you've slept through the night since you arrived at Mount Weather. 

//

The care packages arrive every week until you leave. You're not sure whether or not to be grateful. 

//

You stop digging after two months, each day fading into the next. There are only 167 graves carved into the earth, and you that means most will have to share their plot, but it snowed briefly the day before and you know you’re out of time. 

You haven’t been inside Mount Weather since the day you arrived. 

You return to the command center first, not yet ready to go onto the floor where the evidence of your leadership remains. You find a suit like the one Maya wore hanging in a closet, and decide to take it. You're sure this is going to be messy business, and, at the very least, some relief from the smell of decaying bodies would be nice. 

You go to the dorm first, a reminder of what forced your hand. Your mother's blood still stains the table. 

You decide to leave the ones that helped Cage -- the doctors, the soldiers. It's a hard choice to make, but you know you don't have much time, and above all you're here to give the innocent their peace. 

You take the stairs to Level 5, but you can smell the people left there long before you reach it. You don your hazmat suit before continuing. 

Most that you find are dead in their seats. You'd watched their last moments over the security cameras, but it's much more surreal to walk through the aftermath. 

You walk past a man with food on his fork, and wonder what his last meal was. 

_At least they died quickly,_ you comfort yourself. 

You trip on a soccer ball. It rolls to a stop against a girl in a blue dress. You swallow thickly before moving on. 

You struggle to move the first few bodies, dragging them down the corridor to the elevator, but soon discover that it's nearly impossible. As strong as you've gotten since you landed on Earth, the dead weight is too much for you. You remember the way Bellamy once taught you to lift someone if they've been injured -- over your shoulder, onto your back. You drape the next body across your frame before making your way to the elevator. 

You do your best to try to bury each person with people they loved, even if you did not know them personally. 

A man and a woman were slumped in their seats across from each other in the dining hall, a rose between them. You guess they were on a date -- it may be their first or may be their anniversary, but you put them in the same grave anyway. 

You bury the children with the adults they were found with. One small girl had a doll laying next to her. Aside from the burns splitting open her face, the two almost look identical. You're sure to tuck the doll under her arm before laying her in her grave. 

You move as many as you can, filling about one in four graves, before you have to stop for the night. 

It's dark by the time you settle against the furs.

//

_"We do what we must to survive."_

_The voice echoes through the corridor. You're standing in a doorway. The smell is overwhelming, the smell of rotting, dead --_

_You recognize it now. Mount Weather. Of course._

_Music floats down the hallway, jarring you out of your thoughts. You hear voices, too, you think -- it's impossible, of course, but you can't stop yourself from moving the few steps forward to the entrance of the dining hall._

_You want to cry at the sight of all the people inside._

_"Mommy?" you hear, and look towards the voice. A young girl, barely old enough to look her seated mother in the eye, tugs on the woman's dress. "Can I go play at Sarah's after dinner?"_

_A soccer ball rolls past you._

_"Pass the bread?" a man asks to your right. The room is loud, too loud, voices of three hundred-- alive, echoing off the metal walls._

_You feel like you might be sick._

_The smell is not what you thought it was at first, you realize suddenly. Bodies rotting, no -- you can't tell if it's changed, or if you never recognized it to begin with, but now it's unmistakable._

_A horse neighs behind you, and you don't have to look to know what's coming your way. A moment later, you feel the heat of him passing you, flames flickering off his limbs as he desperately tries to escape. The smell of smoke and burning flesh is thick in the air, and you almost choke on it._

_"Clarke!"_

_You turn around slowly, knowing she'll be standing there when you do. The sight of her still knocks the breath out of you. She doesn't have her paint on now, her eyes wide, frightened against her dirty skin._

_You want to run to her, but your body won't move._

_"I wan't the Mountain Men dead," you hear yourself say. "All of them."_

_Behind you, people scream._

_"It's not personal."_

_You're not sure which one of you says it. The screams stop a minute later._

//

You wake with a start with tears in your eyes. That wasn't the only dream Lexa had visited that night, and you weren't sure how to take that. 

It takes you two more days to fill the rest of the graves. You've been covering them as you go, so you take great care with the last grave you fill. You stand over them, studying their faces, memorizing them before you throw dirt over them. 

A man and a young girl. His daughter, probably, judging by the gentle brow and blonde, curly hair shared between the two of them. You push down thoughts of your own father's untimely death, and pick up the shovel once more. 

//

You stay one more night after you finish the burials. You dream of her again, though this time you only remember fragments of it, rushes of lips and tongues, brushes of hands against bare skin. 

You dreamt of war and council meetings, your voice unable to rise loud enough for Lexa's warriors to hear you. You dreamt of Polis, a shining city. You dream of a queen on her throne, beauty and grace as she rules over her people. 

You wake up and realize it's the first night you haven't dreamt of Mount Weather since the war ended.

//

You decide you'll take one more dip in the stream before leaving Mount Weather.

You're almost over the hill and into the valley, on your way to your first wash in several days, when you see it -- a bag on the ground, a bow and arrow next to it. You take your next steps carefully, as silent as you can manage. 

You find a grounder in the river once you get over the hill. Despite your best efforts, he notices you instantly. 

He is bare-chested, and you're not sure where he gets the weapon, but his knife is drawn and pointed straight at you before you have the time to take one step over the hill.

"Wait!" you say, stepping forward. He considers you for a moment before dropping his stance; Lexa must've ordered her men to stand down in your presence.

"I just want you to deliver a message for me," you say. His face is unreadable as he stares at your, and for a moment you're unsure if he understands your language. You're trying to figure out how to get your point across in Trigedasleng when he speaks.

"I report only to my Heda," he says. 

"Good," you reply, "because that's who I need you to deliver my message to." 

He nods after a moment; it wouldn't be in his best interest to ignore a request from Clarke of the Sky People, should it come to the attention of his commander. 

"Tell her..." you don't know what message you should convey through her soldier. There are limits, you're sure, and probably strict ones at that. 

"Thank you," you decide on simply. His face is unchanged as he nods. You retreat before him, and make your way back to camp.

//

You pack your things quickly. Your travels were light to begin with, and except for the furs you haven't added much in your time at the mountain. 

_"May we meet again,"_ you hear her saying as she turned to leave you. You follow the path she walked once she turned away from your alliance, over the hill and back into the forrest.

You have about a week's worth of supplies on your back, and you're excited to be on the move once again. 

You could say you don’t know where you’ll go next. You’d be lying.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey... so... whoops. I went away for the weekend and had no access to internet and this kind of popped out. If you've read my other Clexa fic I have published on AO3, be warned that the first 1000 or so words of this is taken from the first chapter of that. If you don't feel like re-reading, just jump down to the first break and read from there. 
> 
> So, this is no longer a one-shot. It'll be a Polis fic, canon-compliant. Please note the change in warnings!
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, I'm always looking for new blogs to check out: http://ai-ge-smak-daun.tumblr.com

//

Chapter Two - Lexa

//

_“Skaikru flosh Maunon klin.”_

The words are muted in the canvas tent, but everyone hears Indra as she rushes into the commander’s quarters. 

_The Sky People massacred the Mountain Men._

_“Em ste odon,”_ Indra says, and she turns to you this time. _It is over._ Her face is hardened, bloody, and you have to force yourself to hold her gaze. _“Wor ste odon.” Our war is over._

You allow yourself to revel in it for a second, to feel the swell of joy that should go along with a victory. But this victory does not belong to you, or your people. 

The Sky People are no longer your allies.  

 _“Disha wor ste odon,”_ you correct. _This war is over._

As much as you would like to deny it, you must accept the possibility that Clarke might harbor ill feelings towards the Trigedakru commander and the abandoned alliance. Yes, this war is over, but a new one might be brewing. Your army had left the Sky People when they needed it most. If you were in Clarke’s shoes, forgiveness would not come easily, if at all.

If Clarke had even survived the battle, that is. In your last moments together, you had seen in Clarke’s eyes what you feared most from the girl: weakness. Tears. Love.

It had broken your heart, but you steeled your own expression as you explained yourself to the leader of the Sky People. 

 _"The duty to protect my people comes first."_ You could not allow hundreds of your own to die just for the sake of loyalty to the girl who had stolen their commander’s heart. 

You could tell from the tears in her eyes that she did not understand your actions. She accused you of not caring about her people, but that is not true -- you just care about your own people more. One day Clarke will understand what it means to have to make tough choices for her people. Maybe she learned that lesson on the mountain. You doubt she'll be thanking you. 

But you can not allow yourself to think about these things when there were more important duties at hand.

If the Sky People did attack, it would be what was left of the one hundred against your army, a thousand strong. The odds would be in your favor. But Clarke and her people are not to be underestimated, and you know that. 

Your eyes wander, looking at the men and women in your tent, taking note of which of your trusted advisories had returned from the battle. Your warriors were brave and fought well, but the mountain men were stronger than you had anticipated.

 _No_ , you think, _that’s not entirely true._ You knew what you were getting into when you declared war against Mount Weather. But you had no other choice, and with Clarke by your side and her friend on the inside, you thought maybe, just maybe, you stood a chance.

 _“Please, don’t do this,”_ Clarke’s voice echoes in your mind. You wish so badly that there had been just a moment where you could’ve spoken to Clarke privately, could’ve explained yourself. But there was no time, and now you are certain there never will be. Your story is already set in stone.

“Our enemy is eliminated,” you say, addressing the council in your native tongue. 

 _“En Skaikru?”_ you ask Indra, quietly when your warriors are too busy celebrating to hear.  

As much as you might want to, you know you cannot ask about Clarke directly where others might overhear you. Indra can be trusted, that much you are sure of, but there are few others you would place that level of faith in any more. Not since Gustus had committed his treachery to try and derail your alliance. 

Your concern for your abandoned ally would be seen as weakness. Many were already doubting your leadership after you had insisted on forming the alliance with the Sky People. They did not see the purpose of an alliance with such a small kru who would not adhere to their ways. 

They soon learned to hold their tongues. Anyone who denounced the alliance was dealt with accordingly, and soon enough the Sky People had proven their worth with the first shot they had at getting inside of Mount Weather in many lifetimes. 

Indra told you that the news of your perceived soft-spot for the leader of the Sky People had spread quickly. As did the rumors of how you cut down Quint when he dared to doubt your alliance with your new friend. 

 _Attack her and you attack me._ Your people got the message. They were not happy, but they did not turn their backs on you or your alliance. And when it mattered most, you did not give your people reason to doubt you in battle. You will not give them reason to doubt you now. 

“They are safe, Heda,” Indra confirms from her post next to your throne. “Clarke is safe,” she says, loud enough for only you to hear.

Clarke is safe. You hate the hope that fills you, knowing that you do not deserve it.

It is not until an hour later when everyone has left that you begin to break. All at once your cape is too heavy, your armor too tight. You claw at them as you disrobe, your fingers slipping against the clasp at your chest until at last the heavy cloak falls from your shoulders. You are small underneath it, smaller than you like, and you become smaller still as you sink to the ground, fists clenched at your sides.

 _Clarke is safe,_ you remind yourself, trying to calm the ache in your chest that has persisted for hours on end. _Clarke is alive,_ you think, _yes,_ but not as the same girl you began to love just days ago. That girl was gone, along with the three hundred other souls taken from Mount Weather.

Your sides twinge, a reminder of the burns branded into your skin after the war. Fresh marks, each one representing a life taken during battle. 

You imagine the iron burning into Clarke’s skin in remembrance of the lives she had ended. Three hundred and eighty men, women and children died in that mountain — you know that Clarke will carry their scars deeper than any burn could reach.

You could have stopped it, you remind herself. The war could’ve ended without the blood on Clarke’s hands. But then the blood of your own men would be on your hands, and you could not let your people die. Your spirit would not allow it.

 _Love is weakness,_ you chide yourself. A weakness you can not permit yourself to feel, as you were reminded so harshly at the mountain. Your punishment was swift, the pain of betraying your newfound love overwhelming and consuming.

You can’t remember the last time you cried, but now the tears will not stop flowing. You bury her head in your hands, silent, as you crumble against her throne.

“May we meet again,” you said as you bid your farewell.

Now it sounds more like a prayer.

//

You awake after only a few hours of sleep. You tossed and you turned, unable to find a comfortable spot buried beneath your furs. It's growing colder every night, and you worry about Clarke and if she's taking care of herself. 

You open your eyes and in your half-dreaming state, you see her where she stood, on the eve of battle. It feels longer ago then you'd like, and the vision fades quickly. 

Your eyes still feel swollen from the night before. The feeling is unfamiliar, and it causes you to squint as you stare at the dark ceiling for a few minutes. 

You sigh. Sleep is a lost cause. 

It is not yet light when you send for your scouts. They'll go to Clarke's camp, you'd decided when you rose. You wish you could travel there yourself, but your alliance with the clans will be on shaky grounds now that you've lost your common enemy, and you need to stay in the capital. A leader must have her priorities, and your people come first. Your scouts will be your eyes and ears at Camp Jaha, and hopefully it will not be long before they return with news of Clarke. 

You know you have no right to be concerned for Clarke, so you tell yourself and your men it is in the best interest of your people to know the movements of your former allies. 

Clarke's wellbeing is the least of your concerns at the moment, you soon discover. 

//

"The people are talking, Commander," Indra says lowly. 

"And what are they saying?" you ask, unimpressed. The people have always talked, after all, and gossip spreads fast in Polis. It is hard to keep the people in your favor while fighting a hopeless war. At least it *had* been hopeless, before Clarke fell from the sky. 

Your people gather in a great hall, eating their first meal together, as is customary after a battle. Before you is a feast fit for kings, with a several days worth of rations placed in front of your men. 

"Many lost their leaders at TonDC," Indra warns, and in the crowded hall you know it is all she can afford to say. You do not need her to say more; you understand the significance behind her whisper. The people are beginning to suspect your knowledge of the bomb before it dropped on TonDC. 

You know some of your more loyal warriors would understand your choice, but many might see it as an insult to the other leaders to not warn them of the missile. What is the use in having allies if they do not protect you or care for your survival, after all? 

You appreciate Indra's discretion. Your advisors and warriors are seated around you, the ones that saw you through this war, but many had been wary of you for weeks, and you know you tread on thinner ice every day. It would not be the first time the Trigedakru had turned against their leader, deciding it was time for the commander's spirit to find another vessel. 

You nod to Indra, knowing you should not speak further until you're in private, and instead turn to listen to your men talk in hushed tones of what happened at the mountain. 

Rumors began to spread the second word arrived the night before that Clarke's people had taken Mount Weather. It is not a victory your people should be proud of, and you're sure they recognize that to some degree, but many were not loyal to the Sky People to begin with and had no qualms about abandoning their allies. 

Their consciences are clean, and so they celebrate the loss of their lifelong enemy.

You do your best to hide your own shame from them. You keep your eyes down, focused on your food as you push it around your plate, unable to conjure your appetite. 

You've barely touched your plate when the news arrives. 

"Village...raided," is all you're able to make out over the frenzied man's heavy breathing. He had burst through the door to the hall seconds earlier, out of breath and and wet -- from rain or sweat, you cannot tell. Silence hangs in the room as everyone waits on his next words. 

"There were no survivors." 

You feel the eyes of your people fall upon you. You remember a day when your people looking to you as leader would have sent a rush of pride and adrenaline through your veins. 

Now, your blood runs cold.

"Was it Skaikru?" someone asks after a beat. You do not see who speaks, but you know it should have been you. You are in shock; you did not expect Clarke's people to strike back so quickly, if at all. 

"We can't say for sure," he answers. 

You stand. "Then take me there. I must see for myself."  
   
//

You gather a few of your men and your fastest horses before leaving. You can see a billow of smoke in the distance, a marker for where the village one stood, and you follow it. 

You try to tell yourself that Clarke wouldn't have attacked your innocent, but you know nothing of the girl. You may have fallen fast, but the truth is you have only known her for a few short weeks, and you have seen nothing but strength from the girl. Maybe she _would_  take the lives of your people if she felt it served her purpose. 

You try to see her as ruthless, but instead you picture her standing on the mountain, tears in her eyes.

 _If she's grown this cruel, you taught her to be like this,_ you think.

You force the image out of your head, instead focusing on the beat of hooves against wet, soft ground as you charge forward. 

You know where the smoke leads miles before you arrive. The only village out this way is a small fishing village along a river, one that you had visited many times as a child. Anya had taught you to fish here, spear in hand, feet firmly planted in the river as you waited for the perfect moment to strike.  

You spent your first afternoon there shivering, your skin pruning and peeling as the water washed over your feet for hours on end. Anya left you to figure out how to catch a fish on your own while she took care of other business in town, tasking you with spearing at least one big enough to eat before she returned, or you would not have dinner that night. 

You did as you had observed others doing; you did not move once, a statue in the water, watching as the fish swam towards you. You remembered what you had been told by your father as a child: if you were still enough, a fish would come near, and then you would have a trophy to show to Anya when she got back. You knew if you moved too soon and your blow did not land, the fish would scatter, and Anya would likely return before more fish did. 

But you hadn't even gotten your spear wet when she returned. 

Anya threw her head back and laughed, and you felt burned by her mockery. It had not been long since you became her second, and you did not yet understand her ways. 

"It is important to be patient," she tells you on your way back home, "but you must not be timid. You must look for your opportunity, then seize it. Do not watch as it swims by." 

It takes you two hours to arrive at the village. When you get there, you wish it had taken you longer. 

The smell of burnt flesh is fresh in your mind from TonDC, but the pungent stench still makes you sick to your stomach as your riders approach the village. 

It is not a scene you are prepared for. Few buildings remain, most scorched to the ground by a fire that has now gone out, likely extinguished by the rain that fell this morning. 

 _They must've attacked last night,_ you figure. A few hours before the rain, probably.  

A man lies dead at the entrance to a house, an arrow protruding from his chest, his eyes wide and mouth open. You wish that you could see what those eyes last saw, that you could know who caused his fight to end so brutally. 

You find yourself wishing this more and more as you make your way through the houses. Your men were not wrong. There are no survivors. You've counted more than fifty men, women and children dead by the time you've made your way through the entire village.

"Heda should attack the Skaikru tonight," you overhear one of your men say as he sifts through ashes. You had tasked them with searching for any sign of who had committed these acts against your people, but so far you have turned up nothing. "There are few of them, it will be an easy enough victory." 

"No," you say from behind him. He jumps and spins to face you. You can see on his face he did not realize his commander was within earshot. There is fear in his eyes -- it was not his place to be speaking of such things, and he knows you can punish him if you see fit -- but you ignore it. 

"These wounds were inflicted with knives, not guns," you point out. "Be patient. First, we must be sure. Then we will strike." 

He looks like he wants to argue, to tell you he is sure, but you're glad when he is unable to. Instead, he nods, and you order them to continue their search.

The truth is, he is no more certain who attacked your people than you are. You have made many enemies, and with the fall of the Mountain Men, your alliance with the other clans is shaky at best. 

A common enemy once united you. Now you do not know who your enemies are. 

//

The first thing you do when you arrive back at Polis is take a bath. It doesn't wash off the smell the fire left clinging to your skin, but it distracts you for a bit. You've missed dinner, but you do not mind. You would have answers for no one, and you'd rather have the night to prepare to tell them that. Your hunger can wait until breakfast.

Your hair is still wet against your shoulders when one of the scouts you had sent to Camp Jaha returns. He is alone.  

"Where are the others?" you ask, fearing the worst. You sent hunters, not warriors, to check on Clarke's people. The news of the attack on your village had not yet reached you when you sent them, not expecting that you might have enemies in the woods. An ambush could have taken them easily, you realize now. 

"They still watch the camp," he tells you. "I left as soon as I heard of the attack on our village. I thought you would want information on the Skaikru." 

"Do you think they are responsible for the attack?" you ask frankly. You've never been one to beat around the bush. 

He pauses before shaking his head. "Their numbers are few," he explains in his native tongue. "They would not take such a risk. We arrived just after dawn, and none have come or gone since, not even their warriors. Surely we would have seen some sign of an attack, even if they had carried it out last night."

You take his words in and try not to question the relief you feel at this news. The Sky People are _not_  your enemy, and Clarke did not order an attack against your people. It was a possibility that it pained you to consider, and you are glad to dismiss it. 

"Did many of them survive the mountain?" It is the closest you can comfortably get to asking about Clarke, and you find that you have to force out the words, your mouth dry. 

If he notices any sign of your vulnerability, he does not show it. "So it would seem." 

He waits for your reply, but gets none, and continues. 

"The man who was inside the mountain was getting together a group when I left. I assumed to gather food, but the others will keep a close eye on them. The others seem to be carrying on normally. We think there were some sort of festivities the past few nights, and most are slow to rise in the mornings. I saw their healer, the older woman. She seemed upset, but I did not see any sign of injured." 

You can't help but notice that he has not mentioned seeing Clarke in the camp. The longer he goes without speaking of her, the larger the lump in your throat grows. When he mentions Clarke's mother and not the girl herself, you can no longer hold your tongue. 

"And their leader?" you ask. "What of Clarke?" 

"She wasn't there," he says, and your stomach drops. Your eyes sting, but you don't dare close them against the wetness forming there. _A commander does not grieve in front of her people,_ you tell yourself. 

"Tell them to continue to keep watch for a few more days," you order, your voice tense and controlled. It's a long shot, you know. If Clarke was in the camp, your men would have spotted her. "She may be injured. They could be keeping her indoors."

He nods wordlessly. You see sympathy in his eyes and you hate that he must sense your weakness over the girl, but it doesn't stop you from giving the command. 

"If there is any sign of her, report back to me. If not, we will assume that Bellamy is their new leader, and go from there. You will leave immediately." 

//

More than a week passes, and you try to push the thought of Clarke and her absence from Camp Jaha out of your head. _Worrying will not do you any good,_ you think. For now, you must focus on your own people and wait for word of Clarke from your scouts. 

You're lonely, you decide on the fifth night. That must be the reason you've been unable to sleep at night, the reason you can only stomach a small amount of food each meal before your appetite gives out on you. 

Costia, Anya, Clarke... You've suffered so much loss at this point you're unsure if you'll be able to handle much more. Nonetheless, you need companionship, someone to talk to.

"The Skaikru could be growing stronger with every day. We must attack!" 

In hindsight, you're not sure that Indra was the best choice. 

Your warrior is not one for casual conversation, but there is something about the woman that feels comforting to you nonetheless. Or so, you had hoped when you invited her to share your fire this evening, but since you sat she has done nothing but talk of war and battle. You grew tired of it within the first minutes. Now, you're exhausted. 

"I will not start another war based on what the Skaikru _might_  be doing." You're beginning to seethe, but Indra is too. She's had very little room in her heart for the Sky People all along.  

"They've attacked us. They burned a village to the ground. Isn't that enough?" 

You shake your head. "We have no proof it was them. I had men watching their camp--"

You're defensive of the Sky People, and deep down you know that you should be careful not to show your weakness for them, but in front of Indra you find yourself unable to care. Indra has known you since you were a child, before you were the commander. There is little you can hide from her. 

"And what happened to them? When was the last time you heard from your scouts?" She waits a beat. "They've been taken by the Sky People, and we are doing nothing in return. People are talking, Heda." 

"Mind your place, Indra," you snap back. 

You have been trying to push the thought of your scouts out of your mind for the ten days you haven't heard from them. If none have returned by tomorrow evening, you will be sure something has gone wrong. Perhaps Clarke's people had seen them in the trees and attacked them. Or perhaps something else had slain them before they could return home. 

Neither option sits well with you, and you find yourself frowning. 

Indra notices. "You worry?" 

"If the Skaikru attacked our scouts, we will need to strike back. But if they didn't, and something else got to them, I can't imagine that the Skaikru faired much better than our own men," you say, drawing your mouth in a thin line. 

"No. Not about the Skaikru. You worry about their leader." 

"She's..." you sigh. "I see a lot of myself in her," you choose your words carefully. "She's young, and new to power, but her heart is in the right place. Her spirit is strong. I want to see her succeed." 

Indra is silent for a moment. "She would have done well in Polis," she finally says, and it's as close to complimenting Clarke as she will ever get.  

You do not stay out much later with Indra. After your conversation dies down, you sit in silence for several minutes. It is more comforting than you would have imagined, and you leave thinking you finally might be able to catch some sleep tonight. 

You are in bed, nearly asleep but not quite there yet, when someone knocks at your door. 

It's late, and a commander should exercise caution, but you abandon it instead and rush to your door. You open it to find one of your scouts, the same who returned to you nearly a week ago to tell you of Clarke's absence. 

"She's been spotted at the mountain," he says in lieu of a greeting, and you feel as if the breath is knocked out of you once again at his words. Clarke is _alive_. You nod, and he continues.

"She's alone," he informs you. "One of our men followed her to the mountain while the other stayed behind to keep an eye on the Skaikru."

You consider for a moment leaving right that second. It would only take you two days to get to Mount Weather, you think. The fact that you're people need you and the likelihood that it would not be a happy reunion stops you from considering it further. 

"Wait until dawn, then return to me," you instruct instead. "I need you to deliver something to Clarke."

When he's left, you find yourself smiling. Although you can't imagine why Clarke would return to Mount Weather, you don't question it. You don't need to understand her. For now, you'll settle for her being alive. 

//

You’re still stuffing the furs into the sack when your scout arrives. He has a quiver over his shoulder, and a large knife in his belt. 

 _He travels light,_ you note. _Good_. 

“I’ve gathered some supplies,” you explain, gesturing towards a sack sitting near the foot of your bedding. "Food, water, blankets..." 

You stayed up all night gathering these supplies for Clarke. You don’t tell him that the furs are from your own bedding.

“Wait to give them to her until she needs them,” you instruct. “She will not accept them any sooner.” 

//

It's been three weeks, and you can't keep your mind off Clarke.

You sometimes think of the betrayal you felt when your drink had been poisoned. First, by Clarke. It stung worse than it should have for a betrayal by a girl you had known for a few days, and you snapped at her. 

When you found out that you had been in fact been crossed by Gustus, the man who had protected you since you were a child, you were heartbroken. But still, yours had to be the blade to end his life. 

Sometimes you think of how Clarke must have felt on the mountain. You had broken down some of her walls, you know, and it was not easy. You had kissed her, though, and she kissed you back -- for a moment. Her kiss made your blood rush, but you don't think you'll ever get to kiss her again. You're sure it wasn't enough. 

Now Clarke is back at Mount Weather, digging graves, or so your men tell you. You feel guilty for the burden you've placed upon her. It obviously is not sitting well. 

"Please don't do this," she said, - no, she _begged_. Your lip begins to quiver, and you stop yourself before you begin to cry even though no one is there to see you. You've been slipping, lately, and it makes you uncomfortable. You must be strong, now more than ever.  

//

You wait to meet your scout on the eighth week. Two whole months have passed, and you've been using your men to make deliveries to Clarke the entire time. You can't do much more than bread and water, but you're sure Clarke is finding ways to sustain herself. She's strong. 

You're happy to hear that she isn't being stubborn. You had worried at first that she would not use any of the supplies you'd sent. It would not be unlike her to do so. 

Your man arrives right on time, just a few minutes after you. He brings news that shocks you.

“She said 'thank you,'” he speaks, his English broken. He is not a warrior, but a hunter, one of your best, and only your warriors must learn English. You had hoped his stealth would be enough to stay hidden from Clarke — apparently you were wrong if Clarke is trying to communicate through him. 

Still, the message he brought back brings a warmth to your heart you were unsure if you would ever be able to muster again. You can't find it in yourself to be mad at him for being spotted. 

You smile when you hand him that week's package, and stay to watch him disappear back into the woods. He also told you that Clarke had finished burying the people of Mount Weather, and that she looked like she might be leaving soon. The thought makes you nervous, but you can't seem to shake the smile from your lips as you retreat to your room. 

Not only had she accepted your gift, but she had thanked you for it. Sleep comes a little easier that night. 

//

"It's been months. You need to decide, Heda," Indra insists. It's late, but you were not surprised when she came to your door a few minutes ago. Another one of your villages had been attacked the night before. You do not go to look yourself this time, but you're sure what your men will find is the same as the river village. 

You shake your head, tired of this argument. "Not yet." You don't divulge your thoughts on the matter any further, and your lack of response seems to anger Indra. 

"Your people lose faith," she says, and her eyes are so dark they almost feel like a threat. "They say you are afraid to attack to Skaikru. That you will not be strong enough to hold the alliance with the Ice Nation."

Her words are harsh, but you need to hear them. You need to make a decision soon, but you can't bring yourself to do it without proof. You hope to god your men come back with something more than you found last time, but the chances of that are slim.  

You wish your spirit will guide you, but you've felt alone for months now. You're lost.  

//

Things do not get easier.

It's been a week now since you've heard from the scouts who were with Clarke at Mount Weather.

You had been meeting them weekly on a hillside just outside of Polis, to exchange supplies and discuss what Clarke had been doing. She had nearly completed her task, last you'd heard, and would probably be done within the week. 

You're not sure if she ever got to finish what she'd started. Your men never return, and you're left in the dark.  

The first night you wait on the hill where you meet one of your scouts each week. You convince yourself that nothing is wrong for the first few hours -- he's just late, you think, and you comfort yourself by preparing a speech to scold him when he arrives. He never does. 

The second night you return to the hill once again. You had watched it nervously in the distance all day, distracted every few minutes by what could be causing this delay, but had not dared to let yourself go to it. You must focus on your duties, you know, and there's a rumor going around that several villages had been raided in another clan to the north. You don't know if it's true, but it makes you uncomfortable to consider. That night, you wait in the moonlight for hours, eventually settling under a tree. You're determined not to pathetically watch the horizon in anticipation, but you doze off. No one wakes you, and you have a crick in your neck the next day. 

The fourth night, you decide you will not go to the hill. The night before had not bared any new results. No one ever showed, and you were left dozing against a tree for a few hours before you gave up and went home. Your men could find you there, if need be.  

 _A watched pot never boils,_ you remind yourself. Still, you can't fall asleep that night, and instead spend it watching the door anticipating a knock that never comes. 

The fifth night, you dream of meeting Clarke on the hill. She's dirty, and you know she's been digging the graves. You want to go to her, to ask her questions -- did it make you feel any better? -- but the hill is endless, and you can not climb it no matter how hard you try. 

The sixth night you consider getting drunk on wine from the cellars, but the idea quickly fades when word of another raided village reaches Polis. Your people have no morale left, and you do not know what to do. If you do not make a move in the next few days, you may have bigger problems on your hands. 

The seventh night, you decide to go to sleep. You're exhausted, each nights' sleep that week having left you restless. You can't seem to fall asleep, and you blame it on the shouting in the capital. 

People are yelling -- probably drunks fighting, you tell yourself, and shut your eyes and throw a pillow over your ear.

It doesn't help. 

Another shout comes from outside your quarters, much louder this time, and you grow annoyed. You have not heard from your scouts for a full week, and you are on edge because of this. You need sleep so you can be clear minded tomorrow when you must make a decision on what to do. 

But the shouting grows nearer. 

"Heda!" you make out from the crowd. The call is frenzied, and you're suddenly more interested than annoyed by the shouting. 

You rush outside, looking for the source of the noise. You spot a group heading towards the square, towards the shouting, and you break into a run. 

Indra beats you there, standing in the middle and talking to someone in hushed tones. Her eyes are wild when they land on you. She herds the men towards the healer's tent, and turns to approach you. 

"What happened?" you ask, watching as they drag a slumped, wounded man past you. He has a gash on his arm, and he's losing blood fast. 

"Ice Nation." Indra is solemn as she says it, and you know she is holding something back. 

"They attacked our men on sight," she explains. Another wounded man passes you, and you're sure he will not make it judging by the dark red blood staining his entire front. "Our men killed them all, but it was not an easy fight." 

"The Ice Nation men, they smelled of fire and blood," she says. You know what she's implying, and you do not want to jump to conclusions, but you're beginning to connect the dots and you're not liking what you're seeing. A rebellion from the Ice Nation would mean serious trouble for your _kru_. 

You start to make your way towards the healers tent to check on your men when Indra grabs you by the arm. 

"Wait," she says, sternly. You almost pull away from her and remind her of her place, but the look in her eyes stops you. 

“There is something you must know. Clarke was their hostage."

You stop resisting her hold on your arm, the fight gone from you. You knew something was wrong when your men did not report back -- all this time you were hoping it was sickness or an animal that had stopped them from returning to you with word of Clarke. Now you suspect they're dead, killed by the people who have taken more from you than you thought you could ever bear. 

Your remember Costia, and what the Ice Nation had done to her, and your mouth runs dry. You hope that Clarke did not suffer a similar fate -- or worse.  

Indra quickly relieves you of this fear, but instills a worse one seconds later. "She is lucky Ryder was with our men, or no one would have recognized her. They had her chained. She is…” 

You recognize her look now: sympathy. You feel both too hot and too cold all at once. If Indra cannot find words, the situation must be dire.  

You pull away from her and walk as calmly as you can towards where your men disappeared into the healer's tent. 

You're not ready for what you find inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a bit of filler. The next chapter should be done soon! I'm already about 1/3 finished. 
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, I'm always looking for new blogs to check out: http://aka-patsywalker.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

//

Chapter Three - Clarke

//

You've been less cautious than you should have been. In retrospect, of course you see that. But you knew Lexa's men were watching you, and so you were quick to dismiss the noises you heard late at night as their activities.

They had left you a package the morning you left the mountain. That was only two days ago, but wandering through the woods, it feels longer. You're not sure where you're going at first, but there is a fire burning somewhere in the distance, so big the smoke forms a billow that you can see from miles away, and you figure it's the only clue you've got.

You'll find some of Lexa's people there, you hope. Someone will speak English if you are lucky, and might be able to point you in the direction of Polis.

You're not sure what you'll say to Lexa once you reach her. You know that in order for your people to survive, they must be at peace with the Grounders. But it would not come easy. Even if you and Lexa are able to overcome your differences, both of your people will not be easily swayed. Your people have no reason to trust the Grounder leader -- neither do you, but you find yourself longing to see her anyway.

You will not forgive her, and you don't think she'll ask for your forgiveness. There is none to give, and she knows that. As a leader, you may have to give up a piece of your soul in order to save your people. You had at Mount Weather, and you suspect Lexa had to do something similar.

Still, you are angry with the girl. And so you are happy that you do not know how to get to Polis, that it will take you days, at least, to figure it out.

After an hour or two of walking, you can smell the smoke. It's unsettling, and it doesn't take you long to figure out why. It smells like flesh, hair and bone on fire, and you nearly gag when it smacks you in the face. You're brought back to your dream from just a few nights ago, the sudden recognition of the smell of a city on fire.

You're suddenly on edge. If this is a village that was attacked and destroyed and not some sort of signal fire, then who is to say its attackers are not still nearby? You could be walking right into a trap, and you'd never know it.

You only get to consider the possibility for a few seconds when you're hit from behind, hard, and everything goes dark.

//

The first thing you're aware of is the pain in your head. It is white hot, and it's hard to form thoughts around the throbbing of your skull.

You slump forward, and your hands catch behind your back. You're tied to some sort of pole, you figure. You open your eyes, and the bright white of the sun coming through a flap in the tent makes you nauseous. You wretch forward, nausea taking over your senses, and your arms ache as they pull against your restraints.

Your ears are buzzing, but through it you can make out chatter. It sounds far away at first. As you adjust to the light and your headache fades, you realize the voices are in the same room as you, just out of sight to your left.

Their voices are low, men's voices. You can not quite make them out, but even if you could you don't think you'd understand what they are saying. From what you can hear, they're speaking a foreign language. It sounds much like Trigedasleng, but you do not understand any of the words.

You're blinded once again a moment later when someone opens the tent, and the sudden wave of nausea is enough to push you over the edge. You lose whatever of your rations you had eaten earlier that morning, and you're not quiet about it. All the eyes in the room turn to you, and you realize you've given away that you're no longer unconscious, and probably lost your chance to eavesdrop.

There are three of your captors in the room, all men, you note. None of them say anything to you, but the two in the corner you'd heard talking earlier exchange a few words. One of them chuckles, and it makes you seethe.

"I want to talk to your Commander," you say, and you only realize after the words are out of your mouth that you're assuming that Lexa was the one who put you here.

She could have thought it was your people that attacked that village. Maybe you ran into some of her men on their way to the village's aide. You're tied up the same way Raven had been when Lexa suspected her of attempting to poison her, and you know their idea of justice would definitely involve taking you against your will and tying you to a tree.

Still, there is the possibility that Lexa's people were not responsible for this, that someone besides the Trigedakru were out to get you.

You're beginning to think its more than just a possibility when the men do nothing at laugh at your demand.

One of them says something to the other the other language, and you recognize now that it's definitely different from the language Lexa speaks. It sounds softer, somehow, most of the words constructed with open vowel sounds. Despite the soft tone, it does not bring you any comfort.

The two in the corner respond with a nod, and make their way out of the tent. The last one doesn't look at you before following them.

You're not alone for more than a few seconds when another man enters the tent. Unlike the last one, his eyes are immediately on you. He stops at the entrance to the tent once your eyes lock.

"I know who you are," he wastes no time before speaking in English. There is a smile on his face that makes you uneasy, and you don't consider for a second responding.

He takes a few steps forward, until he stands just a foot away from you. You try to move back as he stares you down. "Clarke of the Sky People," he says, as if it should intimidate you that he's able to identify you.

Maybe it should.

"I saw you at the battle," he continues. "Standing next to the Commander." His voice is gravely, not at all what you would expect from such a slim man. His grin grows and you flinch. "You stood with her, and you'll die with her."

 _Definitely not Lexa's men,_ you think. _They would not execute their own leader,_ you assure yourself, but you can't be positive that is true. Their customs are very foreign to you; maybe if they thought it was time for the commander's spirit to move on, it was their duty to see it through. Still, you're not sure what that would have to do with you.

No, there was something more sinister here. The man lets his threat hang in the air as he waits for your reply, his eyes not leaving your face as you consider his words.

"Tell me," you say when you're sure your voice will come out even and strong. You're proud when it does, and it gives you the confidence to continue. "What do you stand to gain through our deaths?"

"Justice," he's quick to reply, and it sends a shiver down your back. You're far from innocent, you know that, and there are many things that you've done that have gone unanswered for. You're still counting them in your head when he gets tired of waiting for your reply.

"We know the Commander knew of the missile that would land on TonDC," he says. "Perhaps she didn't have time to warn our people. Or perhaps she knew it was coming and drew them there to kill her political enemies. Only a small amount of the men and women who died were hers," he explains. His eyes are dark, and his lip curls in a snarl. You can tell that this is a personal topic for him, but you know better than to ask why.

"More than two hundred of the people were lost that were not the Commander's. In fact, suspiciously few of those lost were Trigedakru. My own nation lost nearly a hundred lives that night. We will take these lives back from the Trigedakru, and then we will take the life of their leader, as ours lost his in TonDC."

You do your best not to react to his words. You had known about the missile before its arrival, but you knew for a fact Lexa had done nothing to warn her own people. Who lived and who died was left up to chance as you both fled the village and turned your backs on the flames that consumed it.

His mouth lifts into a sneer. He takes a few quick steps until he is inches away from you. You can see the dirt caked against his cheeks, and tell yourself that it isn't blood that darkens the hollows there. He smells of smoke and burnt flesh, and you fight against the bile that rises in your throat at the memory.

"Before we cut your commander's head from her body, we will slit your throat in front of her, Clarke of the Sky People."

He moves to leave, but before he gets to the exit he stops short. When he turns around, there is a darkness in his eyes that wasn't there before.

"You knew," he growls. It sends a shiver down your spine. "Even if you did not get a chance to tell the Commander, you had word from your man. You knew!"

You furrow your brow, unsure of how he could know that Bellamy had warned you of the missile heading your way, but you don't have much time to consider it.

"My second died in TonDC," the man growls as he steps towards you, and you can tell he is happy to have someone to blame, finally, for his grief. You try to tell yourself you're not afraid, but the look in the man's eyes does not comfort you.

"The best thing that Commander of yours has done was to betray you," he spits.

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response, your face cool as you stare past him. He huffs, his need to get a rise out of you unfulfilled.

You're not surprised when he hits you. You could feel the anger radiating off of him the moment he stepped into this tent. His gloves are hard and leave a gash on your cheek. The second punch makes you taste blood, and you barely have time to steel yourself before he is striking you a third time. You wish you could stay silent, but a groan escapes as you slide back against the pole. It's enough to satisfy him, and he laughs at your slumped form before he leaves.

You take stock of your surroundings once you are alone. The tent is not unlike the one you had back in TonDC. There is not much in the way of decoration.

You have cuts and scrapes along your body from when they must've dragged you through the woods after knocking you in the head, which, judging by the throbbing headache and the nausea, was hard enough to do some damage. You can feel blood on your wrists where you've been pulling at your restraints, but you think that's the extent of your damages.

For now, you think as you spit blood. The bitterness lingers at your lips.

It grows dark before you know it, and you're happy that the pole is causing enough pain in your back to keep you awake. It would not be safe to sleep with a concussion.

You push your tongue against the side of your cheek, enjoying the dull ache you find there. You've been punishing yourself since you left Camp Jaha months ago. You're feel guilty enough that you're almost grateful to the man that attacked you. But you're concerned at how far this will go.

"Before we cut your commander's head from her body, we will slit your throat in front of her," his words echo through your mind. You think of Costia, of how concerned Lexa was that being close to you would be putting you in danger. Now you will die, and you can't help but blame Lexa. After all, she was the one who lead you from TonDC that night in the cover of darkness, escaping into the woods minutes before the bomb dropped, killing so many.

You entertain yourself for as long as you can, thinking in circles about the choices you and the commander made until you're dizzy. It is hours before you finally give into sleep.

//

You awake to a boot in your side. The force of it slamming into your ribs is enough to leave you spluttering, and you hear the same laughter as yesterday as you hit the ground.

You're being tugged up by your shoulders before you have a chance to catch your breath. The pain in your side is sharp and it hurts as you try to breathe, and you hope he didn't break your rib.

Your hands are briefly untied, but before you can even think of moving them they're shoved roughly above your head so you are hanging uncomfortably, forced to stand. Someone is holding a canteen to your mouth and its all you can do not to choke as the water pours down your throat.

"Enough," a man's voice calls after a few seconds, and you miss the water as soon as its gone.

You force your eyes to adjust to the bright light now filling the tent, and resist a groan when you see the same man as yesterday standing before you. Three of his men are at his side, and several stand near the door, leering. You swallow thickly, and try not to betray the fear that is quickly filling your chest.

They stare at you, unreadable. You stand tall and look past them, jaw set. You will not break in front of these men.

"Leave us," the man commands, and you're surprised. You thought for sure the others were here to intimidate you, threaten you into revealing your secrets. As they turn to leave, you're suddenly not as sure of your fate.

The tent goes dark again after the men are gone, the thick canvas muting any light that comes through. You think you hear a river somewhere, water rushing past, but it is in the distance. These woods may be unfamiliar to you, but if you can escape and follow the river, it might lead you to some sort of civilization.

Still, thoughts of escape are fruitless. Your wrists are already rubbed raw from trying to pull out of the ropes that bind them the night before. Without a way out of these ropes, your escape will have to wait.

You've almost forgotten about the man standing in the middle of the tent when he takes a step closer to you.

"Now, I'm going to ask you some questions," he says, his voice even and light, gentle, almost, as he pulls a long knife from his belt. "For every one that you do not answer, I will use this knife to cut a different part of you."

"We can start with where your village is," he says. "It should be an easy enough one for you to answer. After all, we'll find it soon enough anyway. Our men have destroyed every village they've come across so far. Do not think yours will be any different."

His blade presses into your upper arm, and you do not flinch when you feel it pierce your skin.

"Where is your village?" he asks again. You try not to cry out as you feel the blood begin to trickle down your arm.

You remember Lincoln's torture and how you had condoned it, desperate for the cure to the disease his people had sent to weaken your camp. It had seemed so necessary, then.

You know now it wasn't. The torture was fruitless. Lincoln did not talk, and neither will you. You must be strong for your people.

The man chuckles, and pushes the knife deeper into your skin. It gives way, and you feel blood trickling down your arm as you try to ignore the stinging.

“Did the Commander know about the attack coming for TonDC?” he asks, sliding the knife to your stomach.

You don’t answer again, knowing that whatever you tell him would not change his mind about the fate that you and Lexa both deserve.

This cut hurts worse than the last, and the man smiles as you breathe harshly through your nose to keep from crying out.

He laughs, though you think it sounds more like a growl.

“Where is your commander?”

The blade is at your throat, now. He follows it, his face inches from yours, and if there wasn’t a knife at your throat you think you could break his nose with your forehead. He smiles, as if he knows what you’re thinking, and you try to ignore the yellow on his teeth and the stench of his breath.

You feel a sting, and a warm rush, and you know he's drawn blood. It hurts less than you thought it would, and you realize a second later when you’re still able to breathe that he’s only damaged the surface, drawing enough blood to scare you but not to cause any actual damage.

 _You’re worth too much to them alive,_ you think.

He sneers at you before backing away a step.

"I will not kill you today, sky girl," he says. "But do not think I am being merciful. You will pay for the deaths you've caused."

His fists are on you before you have time to respond, one cracking into your jaw before hitting you in the stomach. You crumple to your knees, the air from your lungs forced out too soon, and you're left spluttering.

He grabs your chin and pulls your forward, smiling when he sees the blood dribbling from your mouth. His hand slides up your face, and you resist the urge to spit blood in his eyes, knowing it will get you nowhere. His hand settles in your hair, a large clump of it getting pulled into his fist and dragging you as far forward as your ropes will allow.

Your scalp is on fire, and you're only inches away from him now.

"You will pay," he repeats again, before letting go. You fall to your knees once again. By the time you look up, he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, I'm always looking for new blogs to check out: http://aka-patsywalker.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

//

Chapter Four - Lexa

//

  
There are too many people in the room, but they clear a path as soon as they see you. Their parting reveals a body, slumped in a bed, covered in blood and bruises. Your breath catches but your stride doesn’t break.    
  
You come within a few feet of Clarke before stopping yourself. She’s injured, badly, and you know you won’t be able to mask your concern if you can see all the gory details. Three men stand around her, and they glance nervously at each other, waiting for you to say something.   
  
“What happened?” you ask. You’re thankful for the years of training that has led to the mask that rests upon your face, cool and collected even though your heart aches at the sight of Clarke’s injured form. You force yourself to look away.   
  
 The one in the middle straightens before speaking. “She was the captive of the Ice Nation. We found her in a tent, bound to a pole.”   
  
“What of her captors?”  
  
“Dead.”  
  
You nod. “Good.”  
  
You try not to count the number of bruises you can see on her exposed skin, ignoring the thinly healed gash around her neck. You try not to think about the way she must have cried out as they beat her, tortured her — _for what?_  
  
They’re dead now, so you may never know. You try not to be angry at your men for that, but you can’t help but wish they had brought them back for you to deal with yourself. Hopefully Clarke will be able to tell you what they wanted if she wakes.   
  
_When she wakes._  
  
You try to push all the questions out of your brain. You can’t think about these things now.   
  
You try, but it doesn’t work, every inch of Clarke that your eyes land on prompting a new question that you’re burning to know the answer to. You swallow thickly, knowing that you can’t show weakness in front of your men no matter how badly you wish to press your hand against her forehead to see if the red, oozing cuts on her arms are as infected as they seem.   
  
“Bring me Varhsa,” you tell one of your men in your native tongue. He nods wordlessly as he retreats, off to find the best healer you know, the one who had taken care of your mother before she —   
  
Clarke moves, groaning, and your train of thought dissipates from your mind, unable to help yourself as you step quickly to her side.   
  
“Clarke?” you say, softly. Her brow furrows, but other than that there is no response.   
  
There’s a bustling noise behind you, and an older woman in a large shawl emerges from the crowd.   
  
“Everyone out,” she commands, her voice demanding a respect that the men in the room are quick to pay her, turning their backs and leaving without question.   
  
“Let me see,” she says as she passes you. You step back to let her through. You can’t see her face as she observes Clarke, so you round the other side of the make-shift bed they’ve laid her on. What you see when you get there is no help. Varsha’s face is unreadable as she examines the girl in front of her, and it puts you on edge.    
  
“She’ll be alright, yes?” you ask, your voice urgent. Varsha regards you only for a moment before she looks back down at Clarke, her hands pulling at her shirt to observe her abdomen. “Varsha?” Your voice is soft, breathy like a child’s, and if you weren’t so concerned with the look on the healer’s face you would take the time to hate yourself for it.   
  
“She’s badly injured,” she comments finally, and it does nothing to relieve the tension building in your chest.  
  
“But she’ll be alright?” you demand again. Varsha gives you a long look, mouth pressed into a thin line, and you let out a shaky breath after a second of it. “Can you help her?”  
  
You remember asking this question once before, many years ago. Varsha hadn’t lied to you then, had told you that chances of your mother recovering from her illness were… well, nonexistent. It was a stupid way to die, and you were so very mad about it, mad about so many things but never at Varsha, who had given you honesty when everyone else was trying to sugarcoat an impossible situation.   
  
“I can,” Varsha says, snapping you from your depressing reverie.   
  
You feel like you can breathe for the first time since you’ve entered the tent. “Good.”  
  
//  
  
You stay longer than you should, letting the hours pass far into the night at her bedside. There hasn’t been a change, and Varsha felt as if she wasn’t ready to be moved yet, so she remains on her make-shift bed in an unoccupied tent.   
  
Varsha left a few hours before, leaving you with instructions to drape cold wet cloths over Clarke’s forehead every few hours. She assured you she will be back first thing in the morning, but you're not comfortable leaving Clarke unattended overnight.   
  
The girl laying in the bed does not look good. She's sweaty, her cheeks tinged with a pink that burns too brightly to be healthy. After you’ve been there for nearly an hour she begins to shift in her sleep, slowly at first, growing progressively more frantic.   
  
She starts protesting against an enemy you can't see, an unknown threat tormenting her dreams. She throws her head to the side before letting out a small whimper.   
  
Your heart aches.   
  
You let your fingers trace over her hand, getting more confident when it doesn't seem to rouse her. You let your hand rest there for a moment, grateful to touch her for the first time in what feels like years since that day in your tent, before everything had gone to shit.   
  
“They're going to pay for this,” you promise her.   
  
It doesn't stop her from tossing and turning the rest of the night.   
  
//  
  
Your villages destroyed, your allies tortured — you cannot let the actions of the Ice Nation go unpunished any longer. You need men on the ground, now. As such you hold a meeting just after dawn the following morning. It is hard to leave Clarke's  bedside, but you know Varsha to be an early riser and trust that she will be in good care.   
  
You decide to send several small troops North immediately, to see what damage has been done to your most isolated towns and to take down an enemy they may cross in their path. You will consult with your advisors later in the day to decide the best path for your army to take. There is not much time.   
  
You won't let them take this any further. This ended the moment they decided to take Clarke as their hostage.    
  
You will not let them use anyone else against you ever again.   
  
//  
  
“How is she?” you ask when you enter the medical tent to find Varsha bent over Clarke. They'd moved her there sometime during the day, and you're happy to see she looks much more comfortable tucked into a proper bed, her wounds cleaned thoroughly.   
  
“Fever isn't going up,” Varsha says.   
  
Your shoulders relax. “That's good, yes?”   
  
Varsha gives you a small smile. “Yes, Heda.”   
  
“When will she wake?”   
  
This smile is less comforting. “When she's ready.”  
  
//  
  
You capture an Ice Nation soldier the next night. Clarke would disapprove, but she's still unconscious, kept so by Varsha, who said it would be easiest for her body to heal this way. Without Clarke there to influence you, you're quick to decide the man's fate.   
  
He will face much worse when you get back to Polis. For now, the man is kept in a dark tent, tied up and alone.   
  
He flinches away from the light when you enter.  
  
“Why does the Ice Nation betray the alliance?”  
  
There's no use beating around the bush. But the man doesn't answer. You nod to one of your men and he doesn't blink before striking the tied man in the stomach.   
  
He splutters before he begins to laugh, low and disturbed, and you try not to give him the satisfaction of seeming put off by his odd behavior. Instead you level your gaze at him, watching as his sneer reveals bloodied teeth, probably earned when your men took him into custody.   
  
After a moment he says something in a low voice in a language that makes you want to shudder. He spits at your feet when he finishes speaking, and your man is quick to deal him another blow, this time cracking his jaw.   
  
“Do you think I'm that stupid?” you respond in the same language he's just spoken. “To not learn the languages of the lands I command?”  
  
“You are not our commander,” he hisses, his voice raw, mouth full with fresh blood.    
  
You take a step towards the flap of the tent, nodding once more at your men as you pass. At your signal they walk forward, one of them grabbing the man from behind to hold him straight while the other begins to strike his middle with a sharp stick. From each  _whack_ blossoms a thin red line of blood against his bare skin, and he only manages to last the first few before he starts screaming.   
  
“We will see about that,” you say before you leave, voice probably inaudible over the man's cries.  
  
//  
  
Three days after Clarke arrives in your camp, you realize you should send word to her people. You don’t know how long she’s been captured by the Ice Nation, or what exactly lead to her capture in the first place. She would want her mother to know where she is, you think, so you send a messenger to her village, instructing them to try to find Octavia or Lincoln first, and resort to Bellamy if they could not find a friendlier face.   
  
They return less than twelve hours later with someone from the Sky People’s camp. You’re surprised to see a form you don’t recognize as Clarke’s mother on the back of your man’s horse. It's a small girl, probably not any older than Clarke, and her gaze is dark and angry as she rides in. You recognize her as she gets closer as the girl you had tied up and tortured, and straighten your back, knowing this is not going to go over easily.   
  
“Commander,” your men greet you as they dismount. The girl does not extend a greeting.   
  
You decide not to be too demanding of the girl, addressing her first. “Clarke is in our medical tent,” you explain to the shorter woman. She nods, looking at you expectantly. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead turning on your heel to lead the way.   
  
The girl barely takes two steps into the tent before breaking into a run, quickly reaching the bed where Clarke still hasn’t stirred. Her hands glance over her body, not quite touching the bruised skin, and you watch as she presses her eyes closed against tears.   
  
“You two are close,” you note.   
  
_Raven_ , you remember her name is, watching as she regains her composure in record time.   
  
She doesn’t respond, but does choose to speak for the first time since she’s arrived just a few seconds later. “How long has she been like this?”   
  
“Three days since she got here,” you explain. “But we don’t know how long they had her.”   
  
Raven's face is grim as she nods. “We should bring her back to Camp Jaha,” she says.   
  
“You will do no such thing,” you’re quick to retort.   
  
“Excuse me?” the woman says, her back straightening to add an extra half-inch to her short stature. You glower at her, but she doesn’t back down. “Her mom is a _doctor_. She’ll want to treat her herself. We have modern medicine.”  
  
“Clarke’s mother could have come herself if she wanted to,” you say.   
  
The woman sighs. “It isn’t that simple. Things are… complicated at camp. She’s needed.”   
  
“To me, it is that simple,” you say. “If it is as you say, her mother would be too distracted to give her proper care. Clarke stays.”   
  
Raven crosses her arms, glancing nervously at the girl in the bed. “Fine. But only until she wakes up, and then she gets to choose.”   
  
You consider it for a moment, then nod. It won’t be doing any good to keep Clarke here against her will, after all.   
  
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” you say, and try not to be jealous of the way the girl slides her hand easily into Clarke’s, her other coming to rest against the girl’s stomach.   
  
There is no time for feelings, especially not for useless ones like envy over a girl that isn’t yours.   
  
There’s a war on.   
  
//  
  
You skip dinner, instead meeting with the general who has overseen wars for longer than you’ve been alive. You’re at a disadvantage — they’re already on your land and there is no way to protect all the outlying villages. You need to cover as much ground as possible as quickly as possible, while trying to gather an army big enough to march.   
  
You decide to issue a call for all villagers to seek refuge in Polis, where you will go as soon as possible to make an announcement to your people. You’ll need as many men as you can get to fight, and plan to ask for volunteers once your people are all together. It is seen as an honor to fight for their commander; conscription would not be necessary.   
  
It is hours into the dark before your meeting comes to an end. You know you have to decide quickly how to move, when to strike. You’ll begin to gather your standing army tomorrow morning. Most of your men have not traveled far since the fall of the Mountain. You decide to travel to Polis with them by the week’s end.   
  
You try not to let yourself think about the reality of leaving Clarke behind, uncertain of whether or not she’ll recover in time for you to even speak to one another. Not that you are necessarily eager to hear what she has to say to you — you’re not entirely certain she’ll be happy to see your face, even if she had thanked you after you had sent her provisions.    
  
You make your way back to the tent that houses Clarke, grateful there are few people awake to see you as you visit the leader of a people that may now be your enemy.   
  
You’re not surprised to find Raven still in her room. Her face rests against Clarke’s torso, eyes closed as her head rises and falls with Clarke’s breathing. Raven’s breaths are slow and steady as she sleeps, providing a worrisome comparison to the way Clarke’s chest quickly moves with short and shallow rasps.   
  
She begins to move when you get close, a light sleeper. Raven opens her eyes, blinking a few times as she focuses on Clarke in front of her.   
  
“There is another bed in the next room over,” you say. She stirs a little more, glancing up at your with heavily hooded eyes. You see that her hand is still clasped against Clarke’s and try to resist the frown tugging at your lips.   
  
“And leave her with you?” she asks, her voice filled with a venom that wasn’t there in your earlier conversations. Rest has made her feistier.   
  
“I’ve kept her safe so far,” you comment, voice easy as you make yourself busy around the room.   
  
She snorts. “You betrayed her.”   
  
You turn at this, your gaze firm. “If I wanted to hurt her, would I really have invited you here to see it?” you say, quirking an eyebrow.   
  
“To be honest, Lexa, I really don’t know,” she says. The use of your name makes you flinch, but you don’t correct her.   
  
Instead, you pull up another chair a few feet away from the other side of Clarke’s bed, facing Raven as you sit. You don’t take your eyes of Clarke for several minutes, wondering if she can feel all the pain from her wounds as she sleeps. The small furrow in her brow makes you think she just might, and you swallow uneasily.   
  
They did this because of you. The thought is intrusive, invasive, taking over your mind every time you look at Clarke. You know it’s not entirely true — Clarke is a leader in her own right, and they were probably motivated by that as well. But there is no denying that the Ice Nation's real issue lies with the Trigedakru, and Clarke has been caught in the crossfire.   
  
You let a slow breath out of your nose, determined not to show any emotion in front of Raven, who seems more interested in you than her battered friend, her eyes squinting as she studies you closely.    
  
After a few more minutes of silence, Raven sighs.   
  
“All right,” she says, slapping her hands against her thighs before she stands. “I just might have to take you up on that bed offer. I’m no good to her if I keep dozing off.”   
  
There is one on the other side of the divided tent, and you tell her as much. She walks slowly, her legs stiff from hours spent in a chair, and you try not to let your eyes linger on her brace for more than a second before turning back to Clarke.  
  
Raven pauses at the piece of canvas giving Clarke’s bed its privacy. “Lexa?” she calls. You look up. “Take care of her. Our people… they need her,” she says, not elaborating further before she turns to leave.   
  
You wait until you’re sure she’s on the other side of the tent before moving your chair closer, so you’re directly next to Clarke’s bed.   
  
You reach your hand forward slowly, tentatively, somewhat grateful in a way that makes your stomach twist that she doesn’t stir at your touch. You feel like you’re taking advantage as your fingers thread through hers, abusing a right you haven’t earned — the right to touch her. She’s fragile, broken, and beautiful, and your fingers shake as your drag them up and down the back of her hand.   
  
Your heart tightens uncomfortably in your chest, and you’re aware of every time it squeezes against your ribs. Your eyes grow wet quickly, and you blink rapidly to push the tears away. You will not cry now. Crying will solve none of your problems here.  
  
Your hand comes to rest against Clarke’s forehead, and you sigh in relief when you feel her skin is no longer burning hot there. Varsha had mentioned her fever broke last night, but you hadn’t gotten a chance to see for yourself. You let your hand linger there, trailing softly against her cheekbones, the swelling there finally reducing, the bruises fading into a soft yellow that makes her look sickly but much better than the alternative.   
  
“Clarke,” you say softly, in a tone that sounds too close to begging for your comfort. Begging for what? For her to wake? For her to be okay?   
  
For her forgiveness?   
  
You only get to consider it for a moment before Clarke shifts, making you jump. You pull your hand back just as she groans, her brow furrowing as her eyes begin to crack open.   
  
“Clarke?” you repeat again.  
  
Her eyes fly open, wild and wide before they land on yours, where they immediately darken.   
  
“Lexa,” she says, her voice low and threatening, and you feel your throat run dry.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to follow me on Tumblr, I'm always looking for new blogs to check out: aka-patsywalker.tumblr.com


End file.
